


come away with me

by weatheredlaw



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Praise Kink, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24460297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: London is scorching, and Crowley can't think of a better excuse to whisk Aziraphale off to the cottage.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 355
Collections: To The World - Good Omens Anniversary Exchange





	come away with me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mia_ugly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia_ugly/gifts).



For what it was worth, Crowley would argue, the cottage had always been intended as a getaway, rather than a permanent home. He enjoyed his flat, as much as Aziraphale enjoyed his shop, but as it stood _now_ , they were spending more time in South Downs than either had expected. Each trip was preceded by a variety of excuses, each a bit more flimsy than the last.

“You know, I think I left a crate of books behind, last time we were there,” Aziraphale said, over tea, not trying very hard to sound convincing.

Crowley, who did not drink tea, took a sip, and pretended to be concerned. “That’s terrible, angel.”

“I know we only just returned, but I _do_ think we should go and get them soon.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t want your books feeling lonely now, would we?” He glanced over. Aziraphale was smiling into his tea. An odd sort of feeling wormed its way into Crowley’s chest, the one where there was decidedly not a heart, but where once seemed to be determined to grow.

“Well. They do have each other, at least.”

Naturally, Aziraphale was not the only one to make excuses, though Crowley would insist his own made a great deal more sense. He wanted to return to the cottage to check in on the lemon trees, and he wanted to make sure the pipes had not burst in the winter. He wanted to make sure that they hadn’t left anything behind that would go bad and cause a terrible smell. All of these were excuses any mortal could make regarding their idyllic vacation home, but he and Aziraphale were more than well aware that none of it was a problem.

The fruit trees wouldn’t dare die, for fear of Crowley’s wrath, and Aziraphale never left a single bit of food behind. The pipes were in no danger of bursting because the house was simply not made that way. But it made Crowley feel better, when he could bang around on things with a wrench, pretending he knew what he was talking about, or when he could complain about the pH levels in the soil, again, something he really knew nothing about.

And so, only a month or so after they had returned from the cottage, they packed their things into the Bentley, bid farewell to the bookshop, and drove south.

* * *

On occasion, London could be felled by a rather awful heatwave that seemed to sweep in for a few days and cast a spell across the city. By Crowley’s estimate, it had not been this hot in some years. Demon or otherwise, there was something about the oppressive humidity that had him peeling off the layers of his clothes, stripped down to a tank top, collapsed in a chair in the shop, fanning himself with a very old magazine.

Aziraphale snatched it from his hand. “ _Will_ you please stop?”

“It’s _hot_ , angel.”

“Yes, and you don’t see me complaining.”

Crowley sighed. “Why are we even still here? We should be at the cottage, it’ll be cooler there. Closer to the sea.”

“You know I’m very busy.”

Crowley snorted. “Are you?”

Aziraphale sighed. “We were only just at the cottage two months ago. _You_ were the one who said it was for special occasions only.”

“It’s literally hot as hell outside, angel. _That_ doesn’t seem like a special occasion to you?”

Aziraphale placed the magazine back where it belonged. “...Well. I suppose it _is_ rather warm out.”

“Mmhm.”

“And my work _can_ wait.”

Crowley sighed. “Angel, I love you, so you know that when I say this, I mean it in the kindest way possible—” Crowley sat up, and reached for Aziraphale’s hand, who took it. “All of your work is fake, and made up.” Crowley kissed his knuckles. “So will you please let me whisk you away to a seaside vacation?

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, _alright._ But you’ll take that back, what you said about my work. Being...made up.”

“I won’t,” Crowley said. “I’ll come back for you in an hour though, so be ready.”

“Oh, I haven’t enough time to pack _anything_ then.”

“ _One hour, angel!_ ” Crowley called, and headed out of the shop.

* * *

“One _hour_ ,” Crowley said, gripping the steering wheel. “How _hard_ can it be, angel, to have your things packed and ready in _one_ hour?”

“Well I never know how long we’re going to stay! What if I don’t pack the right music, or I’ve left behind my favorite shirt? You know, I think I have, let’s turn back—”

“We will not turn back, you’ll survive.” Aziraphale made a soft noise, but did not argue. Crowley glanced over. “If it’s any consolation, angel, you look very nice today.”

“Oh, do I?”

“Er, yes.” Crowley cleared his throat. “Very handsome.”

Beside him, Aziraphale preened.

Crowley had immediately grasped the more physical aspects of their relationship rather quickly. He understood kissing and careful touches, gestures of affection and, of course, love making. But the more _subtle_ parts escaped him. Aziraphale could pay him compliment after compliment — “You’re so _clever_ , Crowley, planting the roses that way. You’re so _talented_ my dear, I’ve never baked a day in my life.” — but for Crowley, those sorts of things did not happen as easily.

Aziraphale appeared to notice, because whenever Crowley _did_ seem to find it in him, he positively beamed. Crowley would have pointed out that he did not need to be _rewarded_ for being... _nice_ , but — it certainly didn’t hurt.

“This _is_ a new waistcoat,” Aziraphale said, patting it with pride.

“It’s the hottest bloody summer on record, angel, and _you’re_ wearing a waistcoat.”

Aziraphale said nothing. He simply reached over, put a soft hand on Crowley’s thigh, and watched the world go by through the passenger seat window.

Crowley spent the rest of the drive trying to recover.

* * *

The cottage never changed. Nothing died in the garden, or grew too out of control. The counters gathered no dust, and the bed linens were always fresh and clean. The benefits, it seemed, of being ethereal beings who had conjured a home out of thin air.

“I think I’d like to have a lie down,” Crowley said. He tossed his glasses onto the kitchen counter and stretched.

“Of course.” Aziraphale was already rummaging through the fridge. “I think I’ll walk into town and pick up a few things.”

“Whatever pleases you,” Crowley said, and went upstairs. He stripped down, opened the window, and enjoyed a cool breeze for the first time in days.

At some point, Aziraphale came upstairs and mentioned he was going to the beach. “Would you like to come along, my dear?”

“Hrmph.”

“Very well.” His cool lips touched Crowley’s forehead. “I’ll be back this evening.”

In Crowley’s mind, he held Aziraphale’s retreating hand until he could not anymore, but he was far too exhausted for that. He drifted back to sleep, and did not wake until he heard the sounds of their little shower going, and Aziraphale singing to himself. There were some things, his angel said, that humans did that he rather enjoyed. A brisk shower after an afternoon by the sea was one of them.

Crowley was sitting up when Aziraphale came into the room, a soft towel wrapped around his waist. “Oh _good_ , you’re up. I thought I might order a takeaway, if you didn’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

“The little Indian place nearby is such a treat you know.”

“It is.”

Aziraphale sat on the edge of the bed. “Did you have a good rest? You’re not nearly as flushed,” he murmured, reaching out to stroke the backs of his fingers across Crowley’s cheek.

“I did,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale smiled. “Very good,” he said, and leaned in.

Crowley’s mouth opened against him with a sigh. He felt loose and sleepy still, even after an afternoon of rest. There was nothing quite as relaxing as Aziraphale’s touch, or the soft and silky way he could pull Crowley into his lap. They were the waves that drifted up along each other’s shores, pulling in and out with the tide. Crowley went happily to wherever he seemed to fit best, and under the soft folds of the towel, he could feel Aziraphale’s cock beginning to answer the silent call.

“Did you enjoy the beach today, angel?” Crowley kissed his jaw and the column of his neck, while Aziraphale sighed and tipped his head back.

“I did. Though I prefer it when you’re there.”

“Take me tomorrow?”

“Of course, my love.”

Crowley pulled back, to look into Aziraphale’s eyes, and smiled. “Take me tonight?”

Aziraphale sighed. “You do not mean to the beach, do you?”

“No, angel. Not in the slightest.”

* * *

This was the coolest night they had spent together in weeks. The window open, curtains fluttering in the breeze, Crowley closed his eyes and enjoyed the slow and steady way Aziraphale opened him, another thing he preferred to do the human way. _Far more intimate_ , he always said. Crowley had to agree.

When he was stretched and open and shivering with want, Crowley watched Aziraphale settle between his legs and stroke his cock.

“How gorgeous you are, my dear, all ready and willing for me.”

“ _Angel_.”

“I know, I know, you want me to ravish you.”

“I _want_ you to fuck me.”

“And I will.” Aziraphale leaned in and kissed him. “How much do you want me?”

“Very much.”

“And how much...do you love me?” he asked.

Crowley closed his eyes. “More than one demon should.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Very well. I’ll give you what you want.”

“Please, _please_ , angel won’t you—” Crowley cut himself off with a moan. His head jerked back and he cried out as Aziraphale filled him, slowly and steadily. He could have him again and again — he often _did_ — but there would never be anything more surprisingly _good_ than this. Nothing as perfect, nothing that left him feeling as _full_ as this. Crowley tensed for only a moment, before Aziraphale began to move, to thrust in and out, slowly and carefully, the way he always did at first.

“So good, my love, so _perfect._ ”

“More, angel, please—”

“I will.” Aziraphale kissed him. “You always want to get to the end so quickly. Do I not satisfy you?”

“You do, that’s why I like the end so well.”

Aziraphale stopped, very deep inside Crowley, who bit his lip to keep from _wailing_. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait,” he said, before pulling out, only to thrust in harder than before. He set for himself a steady rhythm, while Crowley opened his mouth and finally did let out another loud cry.

“ _Aziraphale_ , Aziraphale _fuck_ —”

“I have no idea how you...you manage to push me so close so...so _quickly_ , Crowley, but—” Aziraphale gasped, closed his eyes and slowed down. “It _has_ been a while, hasn’t it?”

Crowley kissed him. “Too long, now don’t _stop_.”

“It’s only that I want to _savor_ this.”

“I’m not a _princess cake_ , now _fuck me_.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Fine then,” he said. He straightened and pulled out before forcing Crowley to roll over onto his hands and knees. “If that’s how you want it.”

“It _is_ , I’ve been asking for it for — _fuck!_ ” _Fuck fuck fuck_ — Aziraphale was inside him again, no pretenses, no warning, and now he could fuck Crowley properly. A hand on either him, gripping him tight, pulling him onto his cock, harder with every thrust. Crowley had nothing to say, because every noise he could possibly make was stuck in his chest. All he could feel, taste, see, _breathe_ was Aziraphale. Aziraphale inside him, around him, all over him, filling him, praising him —

 _So good for me, so tight for me, always ready for me._ Words that meant nothing and everything, surrounding Crowley and holding him down, holding him up, pulling him back again and again. This was what he was craving, _this_ was what the London heat was trying to tell him. Too long without touch, too long without _Aziraphale’s_ touch, and everything around Crowley threatened to combust.

And now, _here_ , he was being given exactly what he wanted, told that he was exactly what he was, and with a wail, he came, making a mess of his stomach, come spilling onto the sheets beneath him. He slumped, wet with his own spend, but Aziraphale was not done, not nearly finished with him.

“That’s it, that’s exactly it. You’ve wanted it like this for so long, haven’t you?”

“Yes, oh fuck—”

“You can come again for me, I’m sure. In fact—” Aziraphale groaned. “I think that’s exactly what I’d like.” He reached and pulled Crowley up, his back flush with Aziraphale’s chest. “You’ll take my cock and you’ll come again, my love.”

“So much, it’s so—”

“It is, but you’ll do it because I know you can. Touch yourself, Crowley.” Crowley did. He wrapped a hand around his cock and stroked, panting into the night air. The noises of their tryst _had_ to be heard from down below, if anyone were to walk past their window. The thought _thrilled_ him, the idea of someone knowing how _good_ he felt, how much his lover satisfied him, how fucking _thirsty_ he was to be made a mess of again and again. Crowley’s cock was growing stiff again in his come-slick hand, and he knew he would do it again, just like Aziraphale wanted.

“Mine,” Aziraphale muttered, “mine, mine, mine—”

“Yours, oh _fuck_ , of course, I’m yours, I could never—” Aziraphale lifted Crowley and pulled him down, _hard_ , onto his cock. “ _Fuck!_ ”

Aziraphel moaned in his ear. “Come for me, my love. Come again. You know that I am yours, too, don’t you? You know I’ve never belonged to anyone the way I belong to you.”

“ _Yes, yes, fuck_ —” Crowley cried out, gripped his cock, and came again. With a shout behind him, he felt Aziraphale still, and could _feel_ as he released himself into Crowley, how his fingers tightened on his waist and threatened to bruise. Crowley would let them. He liked the blue-black spots that would paint his skin come morning.

He was aware that Aziraphale had pulled out and arranged him on the bed, now dry. He was aware of being carefully cleaned and taken care of, kissed and tucked in beneath sheets and blankets, and he was aware that, eventually, Aziraphale came to lay beside him, and they both fell asleep.

* * *

“It’s a lovely beach,” Aziraphale said.

“It is.”

“Your _eyes_ are closed,” Aziraphale said, swatting at Crowley with a magazine. “I’m trying to say something important.”

Crowley looked over his sunglasses at Aziraphale and grinned. “Are you?”

“ _Yes_. I’m trying to say what I think we both know, my love.”

“And what’s that.”

Aziraphale sighed. “That you and I love this place, and I think we should spend more time here.”

“We spend loads of time here, angel,” Crowley said, looking back up at the inside of the umbrella and closing his eyes.

“I meant...well. What if the cottage became a more...permanent residence. For us.”

Crowley pressed his lips together. “You mean for us to live together.”

“Yes.”

They did not, back in the city. Crowley kept his flat and Aziraphale kept his rooms above the shop. They shared space and a bed quite often, but Crowley’s things _stayed_ in Crowley’s home, as did Aziraphale’s.

Crowley turned to Aziraphale again, taking off his glasses. “You don’t think we’d kill each other?”

“No, Crowley. I don’t. I can’t believe you even have to ask that, after six _thousand_ years of decidedly _not_ killing one another—”

“Oh hush,” Crowley said, putting his glasses back on. “I was only joking. Of course I want to live with you. But if you don’t let me take a bloody nap, then I’ll change my mind and leave you here.”

Aziraphale reached over and put a hand on Crowley’s leg. “You’re very kind, my dear. Even if you would prefer not to be.”

“Whatever.”

But beside him, Aziraphale beamed and Crowley, having been unable to resist the angel since the moment he met him, fretting atop the garden wall, couldn’t help himself —

He smiled, too.


End file.
